A Study of Equivocation
by sensitive-lass33
Summary: Not a lot has been shared about John Watson's past. These are my own imaginings of someone from his past who shows up in his present life. Takes place after "The Hounds of Baskerville" and before "The Reichenbach Fall" though there are some post-Reichenbach content near the end. NOT Johnlock. Hold onto your feels, here we go...
1. Chapter 1

**A Study of Equivocation**

By sensitivelass33

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of Arthur Conan Doyle's characters. Also do not own the incarnation as interpreted by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the BBC.

This fic takes place between "The Great Game" and "The Reichenbach Fall," with some post-Reichenbach at the very end.

Boredom and Sherlock Holmes were two things that brought about nothing but property damage.

"Rubbish," muttered Sherlock to himself as he let the door to the front of the building at 221 Baker Street shut behind him. "Shoot a wall a few times and your landlady hides your gun."

John would say he mustn't be so harsh with Mrs. Hudson. Always so conscientious. Sherlock was too busy to be conscientious; besides, one seldom found the truth by being like that. He had considered his options to retrieve the firearm - "I could break in and find it without her ever knowing I had been there, I'm sure of it," he mused, "but John would probably not agree with that either, it being Mrs. Hudson's flat and all."

Since he had begun sharing a flat with John Watson, Sherlock had not really had free rein to do whatever he wanted. Why was that? It certainly wasn't that John had told him not to do certain things – it was the fact that, when he did something John disapproved of, it was always clear that he disapproved. And for an inexplicable reason, this disapproval upset Sherlock. It gave him a nagging feeling, as if someone was continuously stabbing him in the side with a pin. An annoyance he would rather live without. Caring about another's opinion of him – what a new sensation. So theft was out.

"You should try what other people when they get bored," she had sighed, and he knew for sure that she had nearly said 'ordinary' people. Bless her, but Mrs. Hudson knew he was far from ordinary. "Go outside, walk a bit, maybe down to the park. It's lovely out, at least for now, and you won't need a coat." One thing Sherlock hated about the warmer weather of May and June – no weather for wearing a scarf or a long coat. It was harder to be inconspicuous when you weren't enveloped in wool tweed.

She knew a suggestion without a rationalization would get her nowhere with Sherlock – "I love to watch people. And you could undoubtedly see things the rest of us can't."

There was no way to win this except take her suggestion. But it wasn't just as simple as that for Sherlock. He wouldn't just "go for a walk." That would be so mundane he might as well watch the telly. No, he would make himself as undetectable as possible. He was usually able to deliberately avoid drawing attention to himself, but that was when he was on the go. A moving target was hard to hit. But he would end up far enough that he'd have to take the tube home if he walked for as long as he was able. No, instead the walk could have a destination somewhere close. Yet, if he sat somewhere for an extended amount of time, some curious bystander might recognize him from the bloody papers, or even, heaven forbid, stop to talk to him. So, he must make a distinct change from his normal apparel.

John couldn't believe he actually owned denim trousers when Sherlock revealed his plan to him.

He was answered with the knowing smirk so common to Sherlock's interactions with others. "I should think denim trousers are a staple of most men's wardrobe, John. The probability I would own jeans is exponentially higher than the probability I would own blue velvet track bottoms with words written across the bum," Sherlock laughed to himself, at the same time thinking of the horrid things he so often saw young women wearing.

John looked a bit speechless. *Didn't know the Earth went round the Sun, but knows that? Nothing should surprise me anymore.*

The look was still distinctly Sherlock, albeit with a casual flair. He wore his customary navy blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up past his elbow, the denim, and a dark pair of trainers, the other part of his wardrobe that surprised John.

"Anything's better than a deerstalker," Sherlock commented and chuckled a little to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

John had been gone a good half the day looking for temp positions when Sherlock headed out. Despite the very ordinary nature of the pastime, taking a walk was slightly invigorating - simply endorphins, that scientifically-proven "natural high" that workout gurus touted as an addiction worth having.

Nevermind those fools. His body was in fine enough shape for him to accomplish the necessary footwork for his occupation – and time spent working out could be spent keeping what made him stand out from others – his brain – in shape. As for walking, he could loiter about for long enough to prove he had bested the humdrum nature of the act, and then find something to eat and a cuppa sometime in the afternoon.

His long fingers fiddled with the click wheel of the mp3 player as he selected the instrumental playlist on the gadget he had purchased years before. Yes it was an old model Nano but it still did the job, played music. More importantly, it kept people away from him. So many of the 15-30 crowd seemed to live with the things eternally stuck in their ears, giving them solitude in the midst of so many. Fiddle with your phone or act like you were engrossed in your iPod and no one would bother you. It was actually a quite clever avoidance method, though the normal individual wouldn't realize that. The feeling of the earbuds in his ears was a nuisance, slightly painful almost since he hadn't worn them in so long, but they were necessary.

It took less than the time for a single song to play for him to reach Regent's Park. It was a mindless route – northwest down Baker Street, then head to the right into the park. Maybe he'd take a different route, a longer one, on the way back, down Chegford, then turn onto Melcombe and come upon the flat from the opposite way.

Now there was certainly a lot to do in the park, but that was for – peasants – Sherlock figured, cringing at the imagined response from John. But that was what so many people were – couldn't enjoy an outing to the park without pestering some animals at the zoo, playing a bit of sport, the like. He would best this activity with the least amount of activity – the "people-watching" Mrs. Hudson claimed would be so enjoyable.

He took a few turns about the southwest part of the park, testing his deductions by turning up the music so as not to be given much in the way of audio clues.

After deducing the problems of 4 couples, finding none in a couple still in the "honeymoon phase," and seeing a businesswoman mother doing business on her Blackberry whilst her child slept, unaware of the annoyance with which her mother faced the task, and a few elderly women chatting about other elderly women not present, Sherlock figured that a stationary position might make his targets easier to, well, target. He found a seat on the edge of a fountain and lazily determined the country of origin of a group of tourists in bucket hats with fanny packs being led through the park – Japanese – but that was due to his overhearing their tour guide in a particularly quiet moment in the song to which he was listening.

That's enough for now, he determined, and decided to give his ears a break, tucking the mp3 player and carefully-knotted earphones into one of his pockets. So far the task had subdued his boredom more than he had expected. He took a few moments to breathe in the fresh May air. It would rain later in the afternoon, by the smell of the air, but for now the sun was warm on his face and no clouds hid any portion of the blue sky from him.

He was much more at home in a dark library or morgue, but this warmth and brightness had its positives as well. He felt he could breathe a great deal easier here, despite the fact the smell of the chemicals in St. Barts was something to which he had become overly accustomed. Poor Molly, she probably doesn't get sufficient Vitamin D trapped in there all the time – he thought, surprising himself at having thought of another in such a sympathetic way. Perhaps John was influencing him more than he had previously thought.

Before he had time to evaluate this in depth, his eyes were drawn towards the entrance where he had come not so long before. It was the fact that they were stationary and that their group included six people that his eyes stopped on the group of schoolgirls eating.

It was a group of young girls, ten or eleven years old, eating with their teacher. They were private school girls, their red blazers practically screamed it; but the girls themselves were as bland as the sandwiches they nibbled on. Happy upper-class girls – no issues with their families, no nervous tics or trust issues. Either from happily married or happily divorced couples. No eating disorders or "boy crazy" phases. That would come in time.

He cringed again. He generally said whatever he thought to John, but sometimes the thoughts came off as heartless even to himself.

It was obviously a planned outing, this eating in the park – they sat just so, each girl in her place, on a strategically placed picnic blanket, though locks coming loose from ponytails or an untied shoe showed the girls were still at their core, children. It was the teacher whose overly-controlled bearing belied issues under the surface.

The woman was short, just over one and a half meters, legs and feet curled next to her as best she could with the tall heels she wore. By the looks of her, she was younger than John but aging faster. She had straight long brown hair pulled back in a bun, that classic schoolmarm look.

She was obviously stressed but pretending not to be. She carried herself with a posture too erect to be comfortable. Her movements were jerky, unnatural; it was as if she was in a commercial, trying to sell both the product and her performance. Each bite of her salad was strategically planned and executed. This woman probably never had a spill, but needed a masseuse.

This woman was an exaggerated imitation of John when Sherlock met him – on edge, but just a smidge closer to a mental breakdown than Sherlock's current flatmate had been.

He had taken nonchalant glances in the direction, focusing on the teacher, trying his best to name what she was hiding. But the woman's disguise – whatever it hid underneath – was entirely too thick for him to see through.

He had enough of the group, he couldn't deduce anything else at this distance – and to pay too much attention he would attract disapproving glances, as if he were a pedophile. A type of human he couldn't be further from – the one, driven by animalistic urges and denying all other pursuits in favor of fulfilling his lust, and the other, himself, a purely logical creature.

An unexpected yawn later, Sherlock had begun to counteract the reaction by taking deep breaths when he heard an unexpected sound coming from the group. It was a sudden choking sound, followed by wheezing and heavily-labored breathing. He took a moment to focus his vision on the group. It was the teacher. The children's faces had changed from enjoyment to fear, and they were screeching like a flock of birds.

He delayed for a moment; this was exactly the opposite of avoiding attention, it was making himself the center of attention. Which he desired very little. But none of those he saw around himself were coming to the teacher's aid; in fact, a few of them started walking quicker away to avoid being involved. Fight or flight response, engaged.

That was all it took for him to have made the decision– he stood, and in long but hurried strides, made his way over to the group.

The children seemed as shocked to have a tall stranger approach them as to have their teacher have a medical issue. Children, always so afraid, he thought, starting to think back to whether he was so fearful himself at that age. No, that was not going to be of assistance right now…what would? Oh…of course, that was it –what would John say to put them at ease?

"Don't worry, I'm here to help," he said awkwardly, as he crouched down to the woman. He looked at her and she grabbed onto his arm tightly. Her face was white and she grabbed her throat with her other hand. No, not choking. Struggling to breathe. At first glance the woman's grey eyes widened, as if recognizing him, but then she made a motion as if she was jabbing something into her upper leg. Exactly, he should have known – anaphylaxis. He hadn't even the time to take her pulse. All the screeching was putting him off. "Epi-pen, now," he demanded of the children, and the forceful execution of this command had all of the youngsters jump into action. Waiting for a moment, he looked at the children, who grabbed the woman's purse and rummaged through it.

The screeching intensified as a girl exclaimed, "Miss Davies, we can't find it!" It was the child who had seemed a little disconnected from the group, as if she didn't belong, who seemed a bit calmer than the rest. She rushed over to her own bag, bringing out an epi-pen and sticking it in the tall adult's hands. Uncapping it, Sherlock moved the woman's skirt up a bit and jabbed it firmly into her thigh.

Instantly the gasping began to decrease in intensity, and the woman slumped against the kneeling Sherlock, loosening her death grip on his arm but using it to steady herself. The entire scene had played itself out in less than a minute.

So much for a normal walk in the park.


	3. Chapter 3

"Regent's Park.

Yes.

Anaphylactic attack.

Yes.

No more than a minute passed before she was injected.

Yes.

Right."

Red end button.

Sherlock massaged his left temple. Thank goodness the girls' voices had returned to a normal frequency. Stowing his phone in his right rear pocket, he then crossed his arms and took in the scene before him. After determining she was in good enough shape to move with assistance, he had taken the woman to the edge of the fountain where he had been sitting. She sat there, not so stiff as before. She had the girl who had retrieved the epi-pen encircled in a warm embrace, murmuring to her quietly.

The rest circled around the duo, chattering and very obviously shaken, glancing back at their dark-haired savior every so often.

She motioned him over. In her outstretched hand, a nondescript iPhone. "Please. Would you call this number for me? The children need to get back for class." Her face showed that in spite of whatever issues she had with herself, she cared for these children.

He made this call as he had the other, making it short, to the point, but surprisingly more vague than the call to the paramedics. "Come at once. There's been an occurrence with Miss Davies."

"Ok, yes, Regent's Park, just by the fountain." He hung up and placed it in the woman's hand, imagining himself a secretary. If this was how secretaries spent their day, he would quite quickly become a disgruntled secretary. He noticed that she nodded her quiet thanks and remained silent until the ambulance and another teacher arrived, which was when she said something he had never expected.

The children gone and the woman receiving oxygen, Sherlock considered when he could make his exit. It was over, nothing more to be done here. His obligation was over. But…

"Are you all right?" somehow made it out of his mouth. He wasn't concerned for this woman, of course not; she had received the epinephrine injection soon enough and was with professionals. He had no other connection with her. For once he wasn't sure why his mouth formed the words. There was no truth to be gained from the answer. It was the sort of thing John, with his carefully crafted bedside manner, would have asked to put the woman at ease.

The paramedics began to prepare the woman to be loaded, though with a notable degree less urgency than if her anaphylactic attack was still in progress.

"Not really," she smiled weakly, "but could have been worse."

"Certainly." Moment's silence. That was enough. Now to leave, "Well, goodbye…"

A quiet "Wait," stopped him. "I know you," the woman removed the oxygen mask to say. "Sherlock Holmes."

An annoyed paramedic replaced it over her nose and mouth. "You mustn't talk, sweetheart." He turned his attention to the tall fellow, whose name and face did seem familiar somehow. "If everything is ok here, Sir, we should really get her to St. Bart's."

The weak voice became forceful, towards the paramedic and Sherlock himself. "Wait, this is important," demanded the short brunette. "Come here, Mr. Holmes."

The man with the blue eyes and the blue shirt was thoroughly intrigued why this woman she would call something important when she must go get medical care. 'Some strange woman has an anaphylactic attack and I 'save' her…probably wants to thank me and tell me she can never repay me…Clichéd, but she deserves the closure, I suppose….' Might as well pretend to be concerned.

"What can I do for you…Miss Davies, was it?"

She waves him closer. "I need your help," she exhaled. "When I feel better in a few hours you **must** come to visit me." Another breath. "I'm sure the case will intrigue you." Finally, she continued in a whisper, "but I'm going to need you to talk to John for me, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock could number on one hand the times he had ever been speechless. This was number 2.


	4. Chapter 4

What a day. First he was forced to go for a walk, then be someone's good Samaritan. And now, the most annoying feeling of all….confusion.

"John?"

It was a strange, unwanted thing to feel when one of your greatest accomplishments was to be so self-possessed all the time. To be in control or at least put a logical pattern to what is in front of you. But all of a sudden, it fell apart.

This woman. Knew John. Called him John. How? She could be a work connection but the woman was a teacher, no sign of military service. His mind was racing, the mind palace a distinct mess of concepts and possibilities. Could John have had a long lost sister?

...or had he been watching too much trash telly?

"Yes, John Watson." She seemed a bit exasperated, and nodded towards her right hand. "My ring," they both looked down at the ring with the green stone, which so obviously clashed with the color combination of the rest of her outfit.

Two unconnected things. Or were they? Was his skill at deduction getting worse? Never show confusion, feign understanding, he told himself, hearing himself murmur "Yes," to her while he became increasingly frustrated with his inability to connect John and this woman. Had she hit her head? Was she a reporter in deep disguise?

"The stone. You know it?"

Finally something he could understand. "Yes, jasper, set in white gold, 14 carat. Green jasper, type of chalcedony, impure variety of silica, the ancients loved it, and especially…."

She waved her other hand for him to stop. "Yes, yes, sufficient. You're good. Just…Describe it to John. He'll tell you who I am. He'll remember. And I hope that may convince you, at the very least, to come see me."

The indignant paramedic had finally had enough and forced her into silence and dismissed Sherlock, who took the rest of the walk back to the flat to try and think of how to tell John about this mystery woman.


	5. Chapter 5

It has been established that Sherlock plus boredom equals trouble. However, Sherlock plus a plan could be said by some to not be much better than the alternative. Regardless, John had to deal with Sherlock, bored or not. It certainly kept life interesting. Just how interesting, he was yet to discover.

He knew something was amiss when he entered the flat and Sherlock was in the kitchen putting on a kettle. Sherlock did not consult John on how he took his tea – he already knew – but facing the cup, he was a bit wary. His previous experience with Sherlock making him a cup of tea had not been so pleasant, having been drugged.

John's suspicious look did not go unnoticed by his flatmate, who seemed honestly offended.

"Oh, John, what good would it do me to drug you? I have hardly even told you of my experience today 'taking a walk'," Sherlock highlighted the last few words by imitating quotation marks with his fingers. His face contorted into a grimace much like he had tasted something bad. "I'm never doing air quotes again. I knew it was a bad idea when I did it…" He took a drink of his own heavily sweetened brew.

"I can't tell if you are being sarcastic or not, but go ahead," taking a sip tentatively, "at the very least if I'm drugged perhaps I'll pass out…in case it's boring…"

John sat whilst a standing Sherlock described in detail what occurred on his walk – the hypothesis that the mp3 player would keep people away from him was proven, the various deductions he had made, and finally, the group of schoolgirls and their allergic teacher.

It was at the description of his flatmate's assistance in the emergency that John's left eyebrow lifted. "Yes, Sherlock? Heroism isn't generally your thing. You're more an observer most of the time. Even an anaphylactic episode is quite common, allergies being like they are, and people not guarding against them…most people carry epinephrine with them"

John obviously dismissed the episode – something unexpected – as if he didn't care. Or rather, just like Sherlock would have. It was certainly out of character for John Watson. 'Maybe it has just been a long, disappointing day. He has enough of those.' If only he would wait…the best part was coming! "She couldn't find one," commented Sherlock, annoyed. "It was only by chance that one of her students had allergies as well and had the epi-pen available." He breathed, "You know I don't find caring as an advantage, of course, but it was what happened after that was really intriguing."

"Go on?" It had been a long, frustrating day, with few prospects of employment that would take kindly to John's abandonment of the job should a case arise.

Sherlock's face had transformed from slightly irritated to enthusiastic, as if he were a child describing a trip to an amusement park where he had thouroughly enjoyed himself. "As they were loading her into the ambulance, she called me over…promised a case, and told me to send you a message so you would agree to take it."

"Me?" It was Mr. Holmes' practice to keep John on his feet, both literally and metaphorically; however, he took particular relish in the flabbergasted expression left on Watson's face by the bombshell he had just dropped.

"Yes, you." Hurriedly, Sherlock gave an overly elaborate evaluation of the characteristics of the stone and the ring, John set down his tea as his face blanched as if he had seen something very frightening.

It took a moment for John's reaction to fully develop, so Sherlock gave it a moment before spitting out, "So, who is she? High school sweetheart, one night stand, secret wife…" He listed a few more possibilities, explaining that his first idea was sister, but they had distinct, different bone structures and stature; she must be someone with whom he shared an emotional connection with for the ring to have any significance so much later.

For once, it wasn't Sherlock who answered cryptically, "Yes, we dated…I guess…I mean, I haven't seen her in so long. And to be working so

close! A teacher? Blimey, for you to be in the same….Wow. And you….wow." He pushed his chair from the table, Sherlock noticing that John was doing that "crossing-the-arms, rubbing-the-bridge-of-the nose" series of movements he did when something particularly distressed or worried him, his vocabulary having broken down into 'wows'. He seemed to begin to have a panic attack, but took a series of deep breaths, which calmed him down.

Sherlock took note of the response. They had a bad breakup, John and this woman…whoever she was. "…And she says we must visit her at the soonest convenience. They took her to St. Bart's."

His face still pale but his breathing stabilized, John asked after a moment, "Sherlock, you're going?"

Smug Sherlock – it was one of the most irritating yet common expressions one associated with the consulting detective was forced to see. He was right so often that a lesser man would feel downright inferior in intelligence – John, for his part, accepted that Sherlock was exceptional in this way. He crossed his arms, emphasizing he would not be swayed on the decision –"I cannot refuse. Providence has presented us with a potential case. I'm not one for believing in that sort of thing, but to ask me for my help right after she's nearly died….didn't seem to be the sort of lady to just then remember that her dog…or rabbit… was lost or something equally ridiculous. She seemed, uneasy, to say the least, even before the attack." John couldn't get in a word edgewise – why "attack," and why did she say she had a case? – as he heard,"I also want to see what she means to you." That smug grin. "As much as I can read you and what your past experiences have done to shape what you're like, there's one mystery that I've yet to solve…why you can't keep a girlfriend."

John's distress abated and was replaced with annoyance. He took a long swig of his tea before he replied. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John."

"Shut up."

No response was best here, but that self-satisfied smirk remained.

"No, shut up. And perhaps I can't keep a girlfriend since my flatmate is a pompous ass who demands too much of my time…or nearly gets my significant others killed in Chinese circus acts."

Touché. "Does that mean we're going?"

"Yes, Sherlock. But any additional comments like that and I will punch you in the stomach."

"I certainly don't want that." Even threat of violence could not erase the evidence that Sherlock was very, very pleased with himself.


	6. Chapter 6

The silence in the cab to the hospital was unusual – but Sherlock had convinced his friend to go to St. Bart's to talk with this woman of the case, that was enough for now. The prospect of getting hit in the stomach was effective – not a sensation he desired to feel at present.

But as they walked into the building and took the lift up to Liz Davies' floor, there was a distinct change from the nearly hyperventilating John from back at the flat. John appeared to be steeling himself for the meeting. As if he were still a soldier preparing for battle. It was fascinating.

Sherlock usually did the speaking to get them into a crime scene or equally secure location, but in this setting John seemed in his element as he discussed her release. The nurse explained that, should everything remain the same as this evening, Liz would be released in the morning into the care of her usual physician. She should rest, visitors would be suggested to wait until she was in better shape to talk and welcome them.

Sherlock had much he could say, but remained observer at present. John was very self-possessed as he explained to the nurse at the station that he only wished to speak to her. Claiming to be her boyfriend, he presented a sympathetic character, even playing the family card –"Just need to see that Lizzie's ok. Her mum's gonna want to know how she is – on holiday in Wales – she demands I see her in person. My friend here just came for moral support…" The staunch, portly woman looked at the tall, slightly familiar character at the shorter man's side. Sherlock did his part by looking apologetic and nodding pleasantly in her direction.

As they walked down to her room, Sherlock commented on how well the performance had gone. "If you didn't know any better, I would say it wasn't an act. You aren't great at lying, but that was exceptional."

John dismissed it - "Well, it's hardly acting…it's only an exaggeration."

They stopped outside her room. "Do tell."

It was the very matter-of-fact, straightforward John who answered – much different from the John reacting at the flat. "It was true…16 years ago." John hardly missed a beat. "And her mum would have wanted to know that she's ok, if she was alive."

With that, John grabbed the door handle and they walked inside, where the small brunette of the park was reclined on her hospital bed, looking too-small in the too-large hospital gown, too vulnerable. It seemed she had one of the nurses braid her hair, which added to the childlike appearance of the woman. The steely countenance John had been wearing cracked a bit – it was visibly difficult for John trying to control his emotions – and Sherlock realized it wasn't that the experience would prove unpleasant, it was that he wanted to stay controlled.

Standing off to the side for a moment, Sherlock observed everything. Her eyes opened, that same recognition from the park in her eyes as she saw him, and then she saw John in front of her. It was a mutual sort of look, a bit sorrowful, more emotion than Sherlock had seen in his flatmate before. Generally John was straightforward and easy to understand – in this moment he seemed conflicted.

"John." She did her best to put a small, sad smile on.

"Elizabeth."

"Sherlock," the detective interjected in a matter-of-fact tone, stepping forward. He was horrible at understanding social cues, but the two sorrowful individuals seemed to welcome the interruption, "Now that we've all said our names…let's get down to business here. What is the case, and does it have something to do with your anaphylaxis episode in the park?"

The sadness in John eyes turned to angry concern, and his brow furrowed, "which nearly killed you, by the way," interrupted John, his disappointment at seeing this woman after such an occurrence as plain as the frown on his face, "….I have plenty more to say, but I have to agree with Sherlock that your reason for bringing us here is the matter of primary importance. Why are we here?"

With a bit of difficulty, Liz brought herself into a standing position. "It's my father."

Sherlock knew what was to come, but John must have his questioning -"You never talked about him. I thought he'd left your mother when you were born…"

The 40-something face seemed much older as she whispered, "There was a reason I told you that, John."

He was angry now – apparently he hadn't been told the whole truth of this woman's existence. "That being?"

"My real name is Rory Richards, and my father is Allen Richards. He tried to kill me today, and nearly succeeded, if your friend Sherlock hadn't been there." She looked at Sherlock Holmes, crime expert and consulting expert detective, to fill in the details to his associate and friend, Dr. John H. Watson in the most concise and straightforward manner possible. "Would you, Mr. Holmes?"


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was always happy to oblige others by spouting off facts for them.

"If I may," he asked Liz, who nodded, "Allen Richards. English fellow, longtime alcoholic, brawler with an anger problem…"

"Had a wife and daughter – his abuse issues drove the woman to hide with her daughter in Wales in some no-name village…"

"Llandaff," Liz interrupted.

"Yes, yes, of course. They did a pretty good job of hiding away, but eventually the man found them – 1984, it was, and, thoroughly angry to have had his 'ideal' life taken from him, bludgeoned his wife to death in the back garden with a garden statue of an angel."

Realizing his next statement discussed the woman in their company, Sherlock tried to soften his voice and tone – he had been very explicit in the details of the murder -"It was only the testimony of the daughter, who was home ill from school, that got him put away. She was a very good eyewitness." He fashioned what he thought best looked like a sympathetic look as he ended,"And that little girl…"

"Was me." The woman had to be given a moment to collect herself and wipe away a few tears.

"What does this have to do with anything, Liz? Or, Rory….I don't rightly know what to call you." John was visibly shaken by the information he had been given.

She had recollected herself, which showed in the stronger, business-like tone of her voice. "Liz, John." She breathed for a moment before continuing. "He only spent 15 years in prison. Couldn't get enough evidence to have him go away for life without parole. Since he got out, I've done a good job at keeping ahead of him, but I must have slipped somewhere, since, gentlemen, he's found me. After so many years, he tracked me down. Very few people know about my allergy – I asked the director of the school to communicate it with the cafeteria staff if they signed a confidentiality contract." Her voice softened when she spoke next - "My students wouldn't have known unless this happened." Much like Sherlock, she laid out the details of the current case, enumerating them on her fingers. "My epi-pen was missing. I never check my purse for it because it's always there. Someone took it. The same someone who put peanut oil in my salad dressing. I knew there was something off about it."

Sherlock didn't have to fill in any of her reasoning, and in a pleased way, said, "Of course."

She continued, "But Daddo didn't do his homework well enough. Didn't know Zoe had allergies too. She's not normally with my class but her parents refused to let her participate in the activity which the other section was going to do, so she came along with us." She eased herself back so she was reclining rather than sitting as straight as she was before. "But he learns from his mistakes, that's one thing about him. He made a mistake once… I won't have a chance next time."

She spoke as if she was talking of the weather, blasé

John was visibly upset, Sherlock noticed; not so much by the fact that someone had almost succeeded in killing his ex, but the fact that she treated it as if it was a common occurrence. Almost….almost like him. *This is wrong. So wrong.* he shook his head repeatedly, silent.

A long moment passed, in which Liz fiddled with the IV tube in her hand. She looked from John to Sherlock. Her eyes filled with anticipation, and she asked, "So you'll take it? I'll have you know that money is no object. I've invested the witness protection money cleverly. I just worked because I was bored staying at home all the time and seeing my father in every passerby."

Sherlock nodded, but answered with something other than an immediate answer. "Your financial situation was apparent from the get-go. The iPhone, latest Sonia Rykiel dress, the Chanel handbag." He waved his hand, dismissing these things. "Miss Davies, we don't do this for the money. The truth is payment enough."

In another case John would have spoken up at this juncture to make a clever comment, but he didn't. He pulled Sherlock aside and they stepped back from the bed for a moment.

He wanted to say so many other things, but found himself stating, "I am not even going to begin to guess why you know what brand of dress she was wearing, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "Mrs. Hudson was drooling over it. I figured wait until she quiets down about it and buy it for her."

"That's incredibly generous of you, Sherlock." John knew there was more to this story.

"I want my gun back."

"Oh, I see." Yes, of course…ulterior motives.

A quick knock and then no pause to hear the answer – a younger nurse popped her head in the room. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but Miss Davies needs her rest. She'll be discharged in the morning. The Head Nurse says you have exactly 2 minutes." And she was gone.

To the matter at hand, then. Having seen no real disagreement with the idea of them taking the case, he nodded, "Yes, Miss Davies, we'll take the case. I doubt your father, having failed at killing you this time, will attempt to do so again for at least a short while…" The figure in bed managed a weak nod. "But we'll only take the case if you stay in our flat for the duration of the case."

With that a smiling, denim-clad Sherlock strode out of the room. He knew if he were to "go for a walk," it would turn into something far from mundane.

John found himself alone with Liz, the woman he had cared for so many years ago, and they were both speechless.

"He's like this all the time?"

John nodded. "Worse, even."

"Wow. Well, I am given no choice…unless you can talk him out of having me stay with you…"

"Oh, that." The arrangements of thoughts inside John H. Watson's head took a few moments. "I do suppose it is the wisest thing, we can keep you safe."

A very tiny smile of appreciation crept onto Liz's lips, and she eased herself into a sitting position, holding out her hand, touching the thin bedspread in the direction of John, as if his hand was there on the bed. The nonverbal equivalent of a 'there, there.' Maybe it was to comfort herself. "Sorry, John." If Sherlock had bothered to look at that moment, he would see the same wistful expression that had come upon John's face before turn into one of quiet anguish.

"Goodbye, Rory," he spat bitterly.

She winced. "Elizabeth."

For a moment John grimaced, then forced it out, "Goodbye, Elizabeth." She could tell that seeing her again was not agreeing with him, especially with what he had all discovered about her, a girlfriend he hadn't seen in over a decade.

"Goodbye, John. Thank you."

He didn't say another word, but with a quick meeting of their eyes, he set off, hurrying to catch up with his flatmate or be forced to take another cab.


	8. Chapter 8

For once, Sherlock had waited for John. He hadn't even hailed a cab, but was just outside the lift. It wasn't until they were in the cab that John could verbalize his feelings. "Why in God's name did you ask her to stay with us? Further embarrassment on my behalf?"

"Oh John, don't be so incredibly egotistical. You should be proud of me for inviting her to stay with us."

"Proud?!"

"Yes, it's something you would do. Obviously your prior connection with her, albeit long past," he glanced at John, "…and the behavior at the hospital, albeit slightly maudlin," another glance directed his way,"…both lead me to believe that she'd feel safe with you. Am I not correct?"

There were times when John was struck by Sherlock's vocabulary. It was as if he were narrating an audio book rather than conversing. "Yes….yes…." Rather than giving in to the feeling of being annoyed, which was a normal occurrence when you were living with Sherlock Holmes, John instead directed his attention to wondering how he kept up with the fast rate of speed with which Sherlock thought and spoke without getting whiplash.

But yes, now that he sat back and reflected that was something he would do. If she was anyone else, that is. Or had they not parted ways the way they did.

To further rationalize his choice to invite the woman to stay with them, Sherlock added, "Additionally, having the only individual involved so close at hand would be extremely convenient." He hesitated. "And you could use your former connection with her to make her open up…."

He seemed to know this suggestion would annoy John, and braced himself for the backlash - "Sherlock, if I am going to do anything, it is to treat her as a guest, not interrogate her or question her until the moment presents itself." Like so many times before, John had resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock would not be persuaded. And in spite of the unpleasantness between Liz and himself, at his very core what dominated John's thoughts of her was curiosity. Offhandedly, as if an afterthought, he mentioned, "We'll need to stop by the market. She takes her tea with lemon."


End file.
